“Hurts” rattled out from dry, bloody lips.
Pa had fair many voices. He had a Chief voice for steering their family of Crows as best he could. He had his Cur voice for needling Wretch or playing a jest on Swain. He had a Pa voice for teaching Fie how to use teeth, how to deal fair in a dispute, how to treat with Peacock gentry and gutter-born Pigeons alike.
But he had another voice, the one he’d used when he’d first adopted Fie as his own. When nightmares of her mother still made her cry herself sick. When she cowered at every flicker of white fabric in the markets. When hoofbeats sent her scuttling into the roadside hedges for fear of Oleanders.
He’d used the Safe voice to quiet her sobs, steady her nerve, coax her from the thorns before she scratched herself worse.
And at that moment, Fie learned that he used it to cut throats.
“Shhh,” Pa said, gentle, reaching for the half blade at his side. “We’re here.”
A drop of blood welled and trembled on the woman’s mouth. “Please,” she gasped, “… burns…”
“Fie.” That was his Pa voice. It was time to study.
“Aye.” She knelt beside him.
“Hold her head.”
Sticky hair crackled under Fie’s palms. Her eyes squeezed shut at the glint of Pa’s sword.
“You have to keep your eyes open.” Pa’s voice landed somewhere between reprimand and apology. Fie ground her teeth together and obeyed.
“Crows,” the sinner mumbled. The red bead spilled as her lips waxed to a shallow smile of relief. “Mercy. No more…”
“No more.” Pa leveled the blade across her throat. “Sleep, cousin.”
There was a savage jerk. The sinner died smiling.
When the body had stilled, Pa handed Fie the broken sword, hilt-first. “For the husband.”
She tried not to stare. The blade slipped a little in her hands. Watching had been hard enough, but this—
When, not if.
Mercy was a chief’s gift. Inflicting it was their duty.
She reached for the other body—then pressed two fingers to where neck met shoulder. The flesh was cooler, salt flaking from a long-dry sweat trail.
No pulse.
She pried his mouth open and touched a tooth. If he yet lived, the bone-spark would’ve sung for her, double as loud as any on her string. Instead, it sighed and hummed.
“He’s dead.” A reprieve. The knot in her gut loosened.
Pa reached for her shoulder, then caught himself. His hands wereyet a gory mess. He plunged them into the water pail, then dried them on the cast-off blanket and stood.
Whatever he’d wanted to say had gone stale. Instead, he donned his mask and said, “Pack ’em up.”
With Hangdog’s help, the bodies were bundled and loaded on the cart within a quarter hour. The rest of the village waited for them in the commons, shifting with unease and muttering among themselves.
No viatik in sight. Fie bristled.
The Crane arbiter stepped forward once they were in earshot. “Thank you for your… services,” she said, brittle. “We’ve left two pyres’ worth of firewood at the gate in payment.”
“And?” Pa turned his head toward a fenced pasture crowded with goats and cattle.
“That’s all we can spare.”
